Prescription

He was always cinnamon and citrus. Not orange, more of a grapefruit with a hint of something warm and earthy beneath the top notes. She sat a little more upright on the train seat, conscious of not resembling a sack of potatoes this early in the morning and Bailey shifted out the way as her boot inched perilously close to her paw. Oops, better stop moving – she didn’t want to end up in his lap again. Even if he had caught her last time and felt so wonderfully solid beneath her hands. She could smile and talk to him, but literally throwing herself at him might be a step too far.

Waves of sweet, brown sugar filled her nose. He’d bought another muffin from the platform café this morning. She wondered if he was getting fat. She would, if she ate all that cake. Yesterday it had been blueberry – and strawberry and white chocolate before that. Would fat fill out his cheeks or sit round his middle? Did real men like blueberry? So many things were a guess, and you had to take your clues where you found them. Being blind kept life interesting, but it had its frustrations.

Most mornings he joined the commute two stops after Redwood Grove. He seemed to pick the same carriage and usually ended up somewhere within smelling distance. Probably wouldn’t be for an ordinary nose, but Emma was unusually talented in that department. She’d presumed, after losing her sight, that she’d develop supersonic hearing to compensate. Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen – that she’d become like one of those snowy owls able to hear the tiniest mouse far below? She loved owls. But instead it had been the olfactory nerves that took over – and now Emma negotiated her way through much of her world by following her nose. And following Bailey in her big girl’s working harness.

“Good morning.” He crumpled up the muffin wrapper. “I didn’t want to disturb you earlier – you looked so deep in thought.”

“Didn’t want to share your muffin, you mean.”

Some days he wasn’t even within arm’s reach and Mr Thai-Curry-For-Last-Night’s-Dinner or Miss Youth-Dew assaulted her senses and made it hard to locate him. But, today, he was right there, beside her, and she could almost imagine that it was his breath fluttering the auburn curls on her forehead.

“I’m trying to work through something in my head,” said Emma. And I only had a yoghurt for breakfast and I think that was a mistake because it’s complex and calls for proper carbs.”

“Hmmm. Well, I’m afraid I just finished mine.”

“If you can call a caramel muffin breakfast.”

He laughed.

“I forget about your supernatural sense of smell sometimes. And I promise to reform and have shredded wheat the rest of the week.” She thought his voice was like caramel too. Salted caramel. Smooth, rich and utterly moreish. “Now, as a six foot four, gorgeously handsome and wealthy accountant at your disposal, is there anything I can do to help you work through your problem?”

Last description he’d been a five foot nothing, Polish acrobat with knobbly knees. And before that, a six foot French chef on holiday in the UK to learn all the secrets of cooking le perfect rosbif. All she knew for sure was that he smelled like heaven, had a devilish sense of humour and that, since he’d arrived in her life, her small, dark world had brightened considerably.

He’d pulled out a book and was rearranging his rucksack. In the early days, before conversation, he would turn pages, there’d be the occasional laugh at what he was reading and Emma would smell that new book smell that she loved. He must have gone through novels at quite a rate, because the pages always smelt fresh. She liked that about him. And the fact that he’d asked before bending down to rub Bailey’s ears for the first time. And that he was never judgemental, or sarcastic – and seemed to have been to so many interesting places – and that he made her feel like if she were held against his chest, she would feel properly safe again.

“Actually, I don’t think this is a problem for an accountant. This one requires a bit of emotional intelligence. So I’m probably on my own.”

“I am putting my indignant nose in the air as I speak, but I refuse to be provoked. You look very smart, by the way. Big day today?”

Was it a big day? She felt the winter sun on her face through the train window as she considered. Well, probably just about the biggest day for ages, she supposed. A red letter day, her dad would have called it. She had finally decided to fill Dr Sylvester’s prescription. That creased and weathered square of paper tucked between the pages of her ancient diary was finally going to see the light of day and be used. Or at least she was taking the first step to filling it. And it had only taken her two years, seven months and five days.

“You’ve reached the limits of my medical talents, Emma.” She’d been able to hear the sad smile in his voice that day. The smell of his cheese and cucumber sandwiches in the desk drawer reminded her of summer picnics and running through fields with the dogs, utterly confident and never afraid of bumping into life. Of bumping into anything. Certainly not afraid of an eighteen wheeler delivery truck smashing into the back of her car one foggy night.

“Your fractures have now knitted together perfectly. The scarring on your forehead has faded better than I’d dared hope and your hair has all grown back beautifully. And, as far as I and every expert in the county can tell, your optic nerve has healed. And yet you still can’t see.”

She’d heard the fluttering of paper. “I’m writing you a new prescription, Emma. It’s the only cure for traumatic blindness that this old Doc can think of. You need to take a deep breath, square your shoulders, tell yourself every day that that drunk driver was responsible for killing your father and not you – and you need to fill this prescription. As a matter of some urgency. I’m writing LOVE in big letters on my prescription pad, Emma. After forty years in medicine and nearly forty five years married, it’s the only universal, miracle drug that I believe in. Find love and I believe you will see again.”

It was nonsense, of course. But for some reason Emma had kept it close – and remembered it. Even if it had taken her the better part of three years to feel able to follow his advice.

“Earth to Emma?”

“Sorry. Yes, actually, quite a big day. I’m going out after work.” The warmth of his body was making the cinnamon tones in his aftershave absolutely irresistible. “My best friend, Lana, has set me up on a blind date.” She laughed. “Technically, I guess any date I went on would be a blind date.”

He laughed with her – and she liked that. Liked that he wasn’t awkward about her joke. But how could she tell him that she would have far preferred it if he’d seemed at least a little put out at the news. That the problem she’d been struggling with was needing to ask him, and knowing she never would, why he hadn’t suggested spending some time with her that didn’t involve chugging towards work on a train.

“That’s a good best friend. Do you go on blind dates often?”

“God, no! This is actually my first date in about four years. I’m supposed to meet him at that new Italian on Jarvis Street. Actually, I’m rethinking the whole thing, even now …. “

So much for being coolly alluring. She never quite managed that. And now she’d just admitted she hadn’t been on a date in forever!

There was a pause. The 7:32 to Carringdale lurched slightly as it slowed for its approach to the next station. His station.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think he’ll be a very lucky man and you should definitely keep the date. My Grandma Ivy always tells me to take opportunities where they present themselves. And she is a very wise woman.”

Coats were being hurriedly buttoned and briefcases and rucksacks retrieved – and then he was gone.

Emma’s work in the customer team at the animal shelter was usually her refuge. She loved talking to prospective adopters on the phone and taking visitors round the centre. Bailey always took it as seriously as she did and seemed to instinctively sense that their route should always take them past the neediest inmates. But today it was hard to concentrate.

At lunchtime, she called Lana.

“I can’t do it. Can you call it off for me?”

“Sorry, no can do.” Lana was annoyingly cheerful. “He’s out on a building site this afternoon, with no signal, and will be heading straight to the restaurant. Told me to tell you he’ll be the one with the red carnation ….. Yes, ok, I know. I know.”

“Really? A red carnation?” She still had to say it. “That’s the best plan he could come up with to identify himself to a blind girl. Is he for real?”

“Emma, cut him some slack and just go. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Well, that was the bit Emma didn’t want to think about – the worst that could happen. In her life, the worst had been pretty earth shattering. But this is not that kind of situation, Emma, she told herself sternly. And so today your secret train crush urged you to go on a date with another man. So what? Go and see if this Hugo is worth all this angst, even if the early signs aren’t promising. You can always go back to swooning over your acrobatic, accountant, muffin addict tomorrow.

Six pm and lipstick redone and perfect. It was strange how quickly you could learn to do this by feel. So many coats applied before she lost her sight that her retained muscle memory had been almost perfect and she could still glide Scarlet Dream across her lips without resembling an extra in a Stephen King movie. Just as well – she needed all the help she could get tonight.

Her heels on the pavement echoed her heartbeat. Bailey walked with confidence as she urged her along the new route she had memorised. The second road on the right should now be Jarvis Street and she was pretty sure she’d be able to smell the Italian on approach.

The aroma was even better than she’d hoped. All the usual delights of onion and garlic and basil, but there was also red wine and lemons and spicy beef. Her stomach, at least, was glad she had come. She allowed the door to close behind her and unwound her paisley scarf.

“Ah, Signorina, welcome to Bella Donna’s. Are you meeting someone or are you and your beautiful dog dining alone this evening?”

“I’m meeting someone.” Emma smiled. “Probably the only gentleman waiting on his own?”

“Yes, of course!” The maître d beamed. “Please follow me.”

Bailey negotiated her way expertly through the tables and chairs and Emma held on tight and followed.

“We are here.” The maître d had stopped. “Our best booth. On your right, Signorina.”

Emma wondered if Hugo had seen a photo of her on Lana’s phone. Bit of an unfair advantage if he had. Or perhaps it might be better for him to be have been prepared for the vision of unruly, auburn spirals and freckles that had just appeared before him.

“Hi. I’m Emma.” She urged Bailey under the table and felt along the back of the booth before sliding in and settling on the leather padding. After a day of walking about with dozens of visitors, the cushions enveloped her and Emma felt the very beginnings of relaxation in her neck muscles. A nice glass of Chianti, introductions soon out of the way and she’d be sailing.

Just as suddenly, her neck muscles clenched and her stomach lurched. Cinnamon and citrus. And Patchouli. Of course, Patchouli! That was the musky, earthy base note that had eluded her all this time. Where was he? Could he see her?

“I have a confession to make.” The salted caramel voice was coming from across the table and Emma could feel the draft from Bailey’s tail wagging against her knee.

She lifted her chin. “I’m sure it must be illegal to impersonate a blind date.”

“What if I could show mitigating factors?”

“Ah, so you’re a lawyer this evening? Doesn’t change the facts. And a confession will probably make a conviction easier.”

He laughed. It was such a good sound.

“Hugo and I had a conversation. He was a nice enough chap, but he had to go. I might have mentioned something to him about you looking a bit like a ruby headed Widow Twankey. He said he had wondered why Lana wouldn’t show him a photo.”

“Lana’s going to kill you. It took her a year to get me to agree to meet someone.”

“But you have met someone. Impersonator or not. I’m still someone.” A warm hand reached across the table and tentatively touched the ends of her fingers. “I’m someone who has looked forward to the sight of you first thing every morning for almost a year. Who runs down the platform at full speed in a suit just to make sure he gets into your carriage – and who hates his journey to work when he gets it wrong and misses you. Surely that counts as someone.”

“But you’ve never even asked me out ……”

“Emma, I’m a five foot seven, pretty ordinary, starting to bald on top, travel consultant – and you are quite simply the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I never had the courage. But today, when you gave me the details of your date, I knew I had to step up, take that opportunity as Grandma Ivy said, or risk regretting it for the rest of my life.”

He was so much more than his cursory description. Emma knew, in that moment, that he had the potential to be everything. She reached down and retrieved her old diary from her bag. The dog eared sheet from the prescription pad fell from the pages and she handed it to him.

“I need to fill this, please. And I think it was meant for you.”

James took the square of paper from her fingers.

“It just says LOVE, in big red letters. And in very bad handwriting,” he said.

“Yes,” said Emma. “Just love. Something tells me that Dr Sylvester and your Grandma Ivy might soon have a lot to talk about.”

She reached for James’s glass of rich, plummy Cabernet and smiled.

“A toast - to doctor’s orders.”